The Pint
by MildredandBobbin
Summary: Sequel to The Wedding Toast. It wasn't that Sherlock was ignoring John's texts, it wasn't that he cared that John had married Mary Morstan. It was just that there wasn't anything to say.


Title: Pint

Author: Mildredandbobbin

Rating: T

Pairing: Sherlock & John, John/Mary

Warnings: drug use, angst

Author's Note: I've had this kicking around for a while, thought I'd post it.

Summary: Sequel to the Wedding Toast. It wasn't that Sherlock was ignoring John's texts, it wasn't that he _cared_ that John had married Mary Morstan. It was just that there wasn't anything to say.

* * *

**The Pint**

It wasn't that Sherlock was ignoring John's texts, it wasn't that he _cared_ that John had married Mary Morstan. It was just that there wasn't anything to say. John wasn't interested in the work anymore. He was busy with his new wife. What was there to talk about? John _knew_ he didn't like small talk. What was the point of carrying on meaningless conversations? _Oh Sherlock, how are you? Splendid thank you John, and your lovely wife? Marvellous. Oh John, would you care to assist me on a case. Bugger off Sherlock, I've got sex to have. _

No. Dull, boring, pointless. A waste of mobile data and phone memory. Precious seconds he could be spending annotating specimen slides.

The texts had started two days into what Sherlock calculated should have been John and Mary's honeymoon.

_You disappeared before the cake. Didn't have a chance to say thanks for the speech. Anyway, will have to catch up when I get back from Majorca._

What did John have to say thanks for? Hadn't his thanks been implicit in the raised glass of champagne? No, Sherlock did not want to 'catch up' - catch up and do what? Eat food and consume beverages? Tedious. Hear about how _wonderful_ the honeymoon had been. He'd rather poke his eyes out with a sharp pen.

The next text came two days later.

_Hmm no reply, so I'm going to assume you're all right. Just saw an overweight, sunburnt version of your brother. Attached. _

It did actually look like an overweight, sunburnt Mycroft. Sherlock caught himself smirking and promptly deleted it. Mycroft undoubtedly saw it when he intercepted his data communications anyway.

The next day there was another text.

_What was the name of that bloke we ran into at Bournemouth that time? Charlie something? Pretty sure he's swimming in the hotel pool._

Sherlock rolled his eyes and had to hide his phone under the couch for a while to restrain himself from rising to the bait and replying with something acerbic.

Two days later came another text that made Sherlock turn off his phone and lie down for a bit in the upstairs room.

_Took a tour of a bee farm. You used to have a thing for bees didn't you?_

He didn't need John Watson. He'd survived just fine without John Watson for three whole years, and for thirty-three years before that too, he'd managed perfectly. He'd done what he had to do; ensure John was alive and safe, and now, if John would just leave him alone, he'd let John get on with his bloody life.

Sherlock couldn't breathe properly, his skin crawled and his heart pounded too loudly. He couldn't think and he - He ought to do something about that. Self-medicate.

It wasn't a habit. Not if he didn't need to do it. But now - now was the time when it would be most efficacious; calm him down, sort him out, take the edge off and align the fragmenting paths - neurons, veering off, unintended routes, short-circuit-

Two days later he turned on his phone. One text from Lestrade, two from John. He deleted them all without reading them.

There were three more insipid, pointless texts from John before he was due to arrive back in London. Sherlock ignored them too. He was busy with a case - finally something interesting. It absorbed him for two whole days before he discovered the babysitter was allergic to garlic.

He'd practically bounced home, full of himself and his cleverness. This must have been the reason he'd let his guard down because when John Watson chose that moment to send a text, Sherlock read it.

_Sherlock, look I just want to know if you're okay. Send me a text or something. _

Sherlock frowned at the phone, as if he could deduce what exactly John wanted. What exact purpose could he have?

Sherlock tapped out a response.

_How was Majorca? - SH_

The answer came immediately.

_Great, you git. Really nice. Had a lovely time. Glad you're not dead. Again._

The 'fuck you' was implied but not stated. The post-case euphoria had evaporated. Sherlock shut off his phone and shed his clothes on the way to the bedroom. He hadn't slept in 48 hours. What did John want from him? What? How was he supposed to be _friends_ with someone who didn't care about the work, who was (no longer) interested in cases, in puzzles, in mysteries (in how brilliant he was)? John and Mary, Doctor and Mrs Watson. Doctor Watson and Ms Morstan? Doctor and Ms Watson? Did she take his name? Did Sherlock care? Why would he care? Hadn't thought about it.

He crawled onto the bed and tugged the sheet over himself. What did it matter? It didn't matter.

He slept.

Lestrade had a case for him the next day. He was desperate for a distraction (it's not a habit if you don't need it) so he went even though it was only a five. When he returned home, in a foul mood, irritated by idiots and the knowing, _smirking_, looks he'd received from Donovan and Anderson, he threw himself into his composing, sawing angrily at his violin until he could feel equilibrium returning. He flung himself on the sofa, caught by an intriguing facet of the (dull, obvious) case. So he wasn't expecting, wasn't _prepared_ for John to knock on his door.

"John," he said, flinging the door open.

John drew himself up, squared shoulders, military stance.

"Uh, Sherlock. Hi."

Sherlock stared at him.

"How are you?" John continued. "I mean, all fine?"

Sherlock frowned.

John took a breath. Nervous? "Right. Well. I - look do you want to go grab a pint, maybe?"

Sherlock blinked and swallowed. "Why would I want to do that?"

John rubbed at his hair. He looked...tanned, he'd put on weight and appeared less tired. There was still tension though. He sighed, shrugged before looking at him. "I don't know, Sherlock. I don't know. I thought we were still friends. So."

Sherlock had nothing to say. What could he say? No? And have John think he _cared_ that he'd married Mary and nothing was like it was before? Or Yes? When it wasn't at all like it was before and _how_ could they be friends? How?

"You know I'm no good at social interaction, John. Don't waste your time. I'm sure you have something better to do with it."

John looked away, swallowed, frowned, looked back. "Fine. We'll stay here then. Can I come in?"

"Why?"

"To spend some time with you. Catch up. Hear about what's been keeping you so busy the last few weeks that you can't answer a fucking text message."

"I was going to bed."

Sherlock blinked - John seemed pained. Why? Why was he pained?

"Ah. Okay. All right then. I'll- sorry. Good to- Uh, glad you're all right."

John was leaving. John was going.

"John. Wait. You can come in-" Sherlock looked back over his shoulder, noticing for the first time the mess in the flat, seeing it through John's eyes._ Not coping on his own._ "There's nothing to eat. Ah- Dinner? Angelo's?"

John blinked. "Uh, yeah, sure. I've eaten but-"

"Oh."

"No it's fine. I'll get some bread or something. You have dinner. Shit, look at you. When was the last time you ate?"

John was taking his wrist, wrapping a firm, capable hand around it, surreptitiously sliding his forefinger to check his pulse.

Sherlock snatched his arm back. "I'm fine, Doctor. Forget Angelo's. 'Pint' it is." He reached for his coat.

John looked at him that delicate frown creasing his brow. "Second thoughts, I'm feeling hungry. How about Chinese?"

Sherlock shrugged on his coat and slung his scarf around his neck. He straightened his jacket collar. "Fine. Let's go."

* * *

He couldn't help himself. Couldn't. The minute John asked about his case suddenly he was preening and spinning the story, just to see John's face light up, to hear-

"Brilliant." Ah and there it was: to bask in the glow of John's adoration. Sherlock cursed himself silently and looked away.

"Look, John," he said. "This has been pleasant but I really have to go - " He pulled a fifty pound note out of his pocket and placed it next to John's plate and stood, pulling on his coat, his scarf. "Some other time."

"Sherlock?"

"Give my regards to Mary," said Sherlock. "Goodnight John."

"Oh. All right. Night Sherlock."

Sherlock might have hesitated but if he did it was only for a second and then he nodded and strode out of the restaurant.

It was only an addiction if you needed it.


End file.
